Elvenborn by Mercedes Lackey, Andre Norton Page B

it was summer, someone had replaced the statues that had stood on each table with arrangements of flowers which gently scented the air without being cloying. So much better than all the incense and heavy perfumes he'd encountered in the few other manors he'd occasionally visited! His mother made life here into an art form, something that appeared effortless and
     
    was anything but. It required a small army of their faithful ser¬vants, working in careful harmony, to achieve the "simple" ef¬fects that others created with illusions.
    As he approached the dining chambers, the light subtly changed, growing warmer in tone, and the flower arrangements here were no longer made up of blooms of white and pale pas¬tels, but of richer colors. This was clearly the work of his mother's hand and mind. The impression now created was that of cheer and welcome, and he noted proudly that once again, it was accomplished without the use of a single illusion.
    Lynder waited patiently outside the door of the lesser dining-chamber, confirming Kyrtian's guess that he and his mother would be dining without the company of any of the other Elves of the estate. Lynder opened the bronze-edged door for him, and he passed through with a nod of thanks. Subdued lighting and an empty table greeted him, and the open casement door to the balcony beyond beckoned him onward.
    Out on the alabaster balcony, a pair of bronze lamps gave just enough light to be useful without being obtrusive. A servant with a cart laden with covered dishes waited beside a small table flanked by two chairs. His mother rose from the furthest of these as he stepped onto the balcony, and held out her hand to him with a welcoming smile.
    V'dyll Lydiell Lady Prastaran was not the most beautiful of Elven women; her green eyes were a touch too shrewd, her cheekbones too sharply defined, her mouth at once too gener¬ous and too sardonic, her winglike eyebrows too inclined to arc upwards in wry amusement. Her figure was too slight to be called "generous," and too muscular to be called "delicate"; in fact, she was a notable dancer and athlete. And she was too tall for the current fashion, with fully as much height as her son. Tonight her moon-pale hair was caught at the back of her head in a single, practical knot, only relieved by three strands of bronze, moonstone and amber beads threaded onto slender locks of hair behind her left ear. Her clothing was virtually identical to her son's, except that she wore a divided skirt in¬stead of trews. She followed no fashions, and set none; she was
     
    a law unto herself, and as such, fit the Prastaran estate and clan perfectly.
    Kyrtian took her hand, dropped a filial kiss on it, and assisted her back into her seat before taking his own. He sniffed appre¬ciatively at the savory scents arising from the first dish as the servant uncovered a thick soup and offered it for their approval.
    Lydiell took the ladle herself, and measured out two porce¬lain bowls full. "I've already quizzed Lynder, so I know that you beat Gel," she said with amusement. "And I also know that he managed to kill you in the process of beating him. A rather dubious victory, don't you think?"
    "I suppose it would depend on whether you were the captain who was killed or the general who sent him," Kyrtian pointed out. "My imaginary superior would have no reason to be un¬happy about the outcome of our battle."
    Lydiell made a little grimace of distaste. "Your not-so-imaginary relations would either be very grieved or very pleased if your demise had been genuine," she countered. "Your obnoxious cousin Aelmarkin in particular—"
    Kyrtian knew what was coming, and this time decided to pre¬empt the little speech about his duty to the legacy left to him by his father. "My obnoxious cousin in particular is going to be very wnhappy as soon as you finish the project I'd like you to undertake, Lady-Mother," he interrupted, tapping her hand playfully with his index finger. "I want you to